


grow old with me (the best is yet to be)

by spacenarwhal



Series: a whole i planned, youth shows but half [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Birthday, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff, Future Fic, Growing Old Together, Growing Up, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Roman Catholicism, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-25 23:15:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16207712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacenarwhal/pseuds/spacenarwhal
Summary: Still, getting out of bed only seems to get harder every passing year no matter how much effort he puts into taking care of himself. Matt can’t be too surprised. After almost two decades of sprains and tears, Claire likes to remind him he’s lucky to still be walking. Or breathing.Foggy always said this job was going to be the death of him. Matt can’t believe he never stopped to think about what it might mean to live with the consequences.[Or: Matt turns 49 on a rainy Sunday in October.]





	grow old with me (the best is yet to be)

**Author's Note:**

> Listen y'all this is just unabashed domestic fluff squished into the account of a single day in the life of Matt Murdock. I regret nothing. 
> 
> Title from a poem by Robert Browning.

Matt gets out of bed without waking Foggy.

It’s easier said than done nowadays. Foggy’s long since trained himself out of what was once a natural ability to sleep through anything. Almost thirty years down the road, he’s got as many late nights to his name as Matt’s racked up in his time as the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen.

Matt makes sure to stand carefully, keeps his first steps slow and measured to ensure his left leg will hold his weight without buckling.  

His knee’s been bothering him all week, a more frequent occurrence than Matt can deny these days. The cartilage in his right knee is more a memory than a reality these days, and Foggy’s taken to affectionately referring to him as Old Man Murdock, asking Matt to predict cold spells with a molasses-thick drawl that never fails to make Matt laugh.

Time’s taken its toll. Matt might not be remotely close to decrepit, but decades spent fighting the city’s battles on its behalf left their mark. The ache in his hands is a regular companion, enough so that Matt finally had to give into Doctor Hussain’s strongly worded requests that he trade in his boxing gloves for swim trunks. He swims most mornings now, thirty years of training too deeply ingrained in him to go wholly without.

Still getting out of bed only seems to get harder every passing year no matter how much effort he puts into taking care of himself. He can’t be too surprised. After almost two decades of sprains and tears, Claire likes to remind he’s lucky to still be walking. Or breathing. 

Foggy always said this job was going to be the death of him. Matt can’t believe he never stopped to think about what it might mean to live with the consequences.

Foggy’s still sleeping when Matt creeps back to the bedroom, dressed in sweats and his ancient sneakers. Matt’s tempted to wake him, but Foggy already knows where he’s gone and there’s no need for it really, Matt’s coming back.

He knows Foggy will be here.

-

The pool is empty when he arrives, but then it always is.

Dad taught Matt how to swim before the accident, but he’d relearned it afterward. Not just with Stick who shoved Matt into the deep end without warning and waited to see if he’d break the surface again, but with an actual instructor. One of the perks the Student Affairs Office had been able to get for him when Matt had petitioned on the grounds that most of the physical education classes offered to students weren’t exactly accessible to blind students.

The water cool as Matt lowers himself into the pool, laps up his thighs and over the small of his back until Matt’s submerged up to his chest, exposed skin breaking out into goosepimples as he adjusts to the temperature. To his back the water shallows, Matt knows it, walks forward until the water touches his chin. He takes a deep breath and ducks under the surface.

He’s been swimming here for five years now, is familiar with the length of the pool, the depth of the water, can swim without anyone there to spot him. Matt knows how to keep his strokes even and smooth, mindful of the end of the lane ahead of him. He swims until the soreness in his knee is less pronounced, his muscled warmed and his head clear. All the while the ever present noise of the city is drowned out by the pressure of the water in his ears, leaves Matt with nothing but the steady strum of his own heart beating inside his head, the in and out of his lungs behind his ribs. Matt swims and thinks of nothing at all.

It’s easier to allow himself this kind of luxury.

There was a time, fifteen, ten, even five years prior, when any injury bad enough to keep Matt out of the ring would have left him bad-tempered and brittle. Another failure for Matt to chew on like gristle, impossible to swallow. Even knowing that the city wouldn’t be defenseless without him out there to protect it hadn’t made it any easier, every new hero that arrived on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen just another reminder that he wasn’t needed out there, not like he once had been. The feeling occurs less frequently now. He likes to think he’s gotten better at sharing the responsibility.

“Think that means you’re growing up, Mike.” Claire said over coffee months ago, when the city was still sweating under the unforgiving summer sun. “Is that what this feeling is?” Matt joked, chewing on an ice cube, the crack of it clashing with the steady bustle and chatter of the coffee shop. He didn’t miss the amused huff of Claire’s breathing, her laughter a familiar and longed after sound even now. “Can’t say I care for it.”

-

“There’s the birthday boy.” Foggy yawns when Matt walks into the kitchen, still toweling his hair dry. Matt hears the popping of Foggy’s jaw stretching, the water percolating inside the coffee machine, the rich heavy scent of coffee grounds still clinging to Foggy’s knuckles from when he filled the machine.

He listens to Foggy moving around their tidy kitchen, the shuffle of his house slippers, worn thin from years of use. There’s the signature clink of mugs set down on the counter, the initial too-quick spill of coffee when Foggy tilts the pot before it settles into a steady stream, a few stray drops dripping on to the floor.

Matt listens to the chime of Foggy’s spoon as he stirs his coffee, humming absentmindedly, some song that’s been playing on seemingly constant loop on the radio. He curls his fingers around his coffee cup, lets the warmth seep into his bones and soothe the dull ache in his joints, takes a moment to just listen.

The sounds of home.

“Hey Matty.” There’s the familiar sound of ceramic on their tile countertop as Foggy sets down his mug, followed by approaching steps, the gentle heat of Foggy’s body settling against his own. When Foggy pulls the coffee cup from Matt’s hands Matt relinquishes it willingly, mouth curling into a loose grin when Foggy’s hands come up to take his face between them. Foggy’s palms are warm from his own mug, his touch steady and coffee-scented.

Foggy’s mouth is a combination of unsugared coffee and spearmint toothpaste when he kisses Matt. Foggy’s heart beats firmly through the kiss, an unchanging rhythm Matt knows by heart.

“Happy birthday, Matt.” Foggy says, so close Matt can feel the words brush over his lips. Matt grins in response, touches his fingers to the creases left in the wake of Foggy’s smile, strokes the soft curve of his cheek. 

Matt presses another kiss to the corner of Foggy’s mouth, earns a quiet chuckle, a warm exhale against his skin.

“Good swim?” Foggy asks, left hand dropping down to cover the column of Matt’s neck. He kneads the muscle gently. Matt nods, drops one more kiss against Foggy’s mouth before answering. “Managed to get in a full 30 under 30.” Matt says proudly, and Foggy makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. “Oh, Murdock’s got his groove back.”

Matt rolls his eyes, though he doesn’t try to hold off his smile when Foggy kisses his chin. “Really, this is how you’re gonna treat me? I thought you were supposed to be nice today.”

Foggy’s laughter rings out, booming in his chest and filling the corners of their kitchen. “Me? I’m sweet as sugar.”

Matt frowns as best he can, though its hard to keep the expression in place when Foggy dances out of his reach, steps light, laughter still fluttering in his throat.

“Okay, okay, fine. What’s your birthday wish, dearest?”

Matt shrugs, picks up his mug. “Luzzo’s for dinner.”

Foggy drops his head forward with a pained groan, paused at the refrigerator door. “Oh Matthew, you’ve literally got a free pass today. You can ask for anything and you’re going with pizza for dinner? Have I taught you nothing? This time next year you’ll be asking for the early bird special and trying to keep those damn kids off our lawn.”

He’s been saying things like that again, with the same ease with which he used to describe their futures when they were young men still, drunk off cheap booze and the promise of tomorrow. It’s almost as much of a novelty to Matt now as it was then, after what feels like too many years of never knowing what might happen next. Matt wanders over to Foggy, presses against the length of his back, hooks his chin over Foggy’s shoulder.

The ends of Foggy’s hair tickle Matt’s temple, growing out slowly though nowhere near its original length. Foggy’s kept it short for so long, even with the doctor’s high hopes throughout his remission, said it would just be easier in case he had to start chemotherapy again.

The texture of it is different at the ends, drier, almost coarse, but it’s softer closer to his scalp, thick again under Matt’s fingers when Foggy lets him play with it.

 It smells of the same shampoo and conditioner they’ve been sharing for years and Matt wants to bury his nose against Foggy’s hair and just enjoy the feeling of it. He doesn’t think Foggy would laugh if Matt did. Matt’s done stranger things where Foggy’s concerned.

 “I do already have a cane,” Matt reminds him drily, swallowing the urge as too self-indulgent even for today, and Foggy reaches back, half-swats at Matt to shoo him away and then settles for pulling at the short hair at the nape of Matt’s neck in retribution.

“Let go and help me with breakfast already or we’re going to starve.” Foggy grumbles but his fingers leave comet tails of warmth where they trail over Matt’s skin.

-

It’s drizzling again by the time breakfast is laid out. They have everything bagels piled high with lox and schmear, salty capers and thin slices of red onion, sprawled on the sofa with the radio playing in the kitchen. It’s quiet compared to the chaotic bustle of the dinner table last night, their dining table crowded with friends eager to celebrate Matt’s birthday.

(“Mommy says you get beat up a lot,” Dani Cage says innocently and Luke chokes on his drink, Foggy smothering nearly silent laughter into his napkin. “She isn’t wrong.” Misty says drily, and Matt shrugs, too pleased and pleasantly buzzed to take offense.)

Foggy talks with his mouth full, gestures with food in his hand and sends crumbs flying everywhere.  Matt remains bullheaded present in the moment, refuses to let his mind turn to last year: Foggy home with the flu and Matt panicking at the fevered flush of his skin, the wet hack in his chest every time he coughed, trying and failing not to worry even as Foggy reassured Matt he was fine.

They’re fine. Everything is fine.

“What are the plans for today, then?” Foggy asks, knocking his knee against Matt’s thigh.

Matt licks at the cream cheese smudged at the corner of his lip, listens to the steady beat of Foggy’s content heart, breathes in onion and salt and fish, presses his leg a little more firmly against Foggy’s.

“The usual.” Matt answers, knowing there’s time still before he has to get up again and head out. Time to sit here and enjoy what he has.

Foggy takes another bite of food, voice muffled when he says, “Way to live dangerously, Daredevil.”

-

Matt pulls his jacket on over his dress shirt, straightens his cuffs before stepping back out into the living room. Foggy’s switched off the radio in favor of one of his competitive baking shows. He lets out a low whistle when he catches sight of Matt, gets to his feet and wanders over to run his hand down Matt’s chest, fixing the tie Matt’s already laid smooth.

“Sure you don’t want me to join you?” Foggy offers, like he does when he thinks it’s the right thing to do. But Foggy is still Foggy, a holiday Catholic at best and only to appease Anna Nelson.

Matt shakes his head, “It’s going to rain again.” He does his best to keep his grin loose, smooths his fingers over the soft material of Foggy’s sweatshirt and hopes Foggy doesn’t read fussing into the gesture. Matt wonders if this is how Foggy felt when Matt first started going out in the suit, if the same worry twisted in his belly with nauseating agility no matter how many times Matt came back, more or less whole. 

If Foggy reads anything into Matt’s deflection he doesn’t say anything. Instead Foggy nods slowly, faux understanding dripping from his voice when he asks, “Your elbow telling you that, buddy?” Matt groans half-heartedly if only to hear Foggy chuckle.

“Give Father Lanthom my best.” Foggy says finally, brushing imaginary lint off Matt’s shoulders. Maybe Matt isn’t the only one jittery with ill-timed separation anxiety.  Matt kisses Foggy on the cheek before he leaves, cane folded in one hand and umbrella in the other.

They’ll get better this, Matt tells himself. There’s time to get better.

It does start raining on the walk to the church, a misty drizzle that sticks to his glasses but it isn’t enough to warrant opening the umbrella. There are still people trickling into the mid-morning service, but Matt finds a seat at the back of the church easily enough.

Even after a lifetime coming to Mass, it still feels a bit like stepping out of time. It is easy to fall into the rhythm of the service, the offerings and prayers, to immerse himself in the smell of candle wax and incense. For all the changes the Church has undergone in the last three decades, Mass hasn’t lost its comforting familiarity, the meat and bones of it still unchanged from the services Matt attended at Dad’s side as a child.

Afterward, Matt remains seated while the other attendants clear out, hands clasped in his lap in prayer.

_Forty-nine._

 A wonder he never would have imagined for himself when he first put on the mask. Hell, he never thought he’d live out the first year. Others didn’t. There are days still when Matt feels every loss the years have torn from him, the people he failed to help, the friends he let down. People who deserved happier lives than the ones they had but never had the opportunity.

Matt thinks of his father, more than thirty years gone. Matt’s outlived him by almost a decade already and he’s beginning to suspect, to hope against hope, that he might yet get another ten more.

Matt wonders what Jack Murdock would have to say to him now, if he could see what Matt’s made of himself, if he knew about Matt’s choices, his mistakes. How his hands ache from all the punches Dad never wanted him to throw, how his knees are close to ruined, his skin a map of scars, a testament to the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen that Matt will always live with even if he put the suit away tomorrow.  

Matt closes his eyes behind his glasses and breathes in, tries to clear his mind like he does when he mediates as though greater focus might help him _listen_ , just in case—

“Lost in prayer or thought?” Father Lantom doesn’t quite catch him unawares, Matt isn’t that far gone, but it’s harder to pull himself back from his thoughts than he likes to admit.

“A little of both.” Matt answers honestly, listens to the creak of the lacquered wood as Father Lantom lowers himself onto the pew besides him, his cane clacking as he sets it to rest against the pew in front of them. “No Franklin this week, I see.”

Matt grins. Retirement hasn’t slowed Father Lantom down any. 

“He says hi.”

Father Lantom harrumps. “Tell him I’d like to see him before December.” Matt laughs, the sound of ripples off the cool stone walls of the sanctuary. “Ready to go?” They don’t take their coffee in the rectory anymore, but Matt would rather pay than give up the tradition. “Nice of you to change the subject.” Father Lantom says drily waiting for Matt to get up and move out of the pew. His knee twinges as he takes to his feet, folds just a little against his will.

Father Lantom moves slower now than when Matt first met him, but even with the cane and arthritis he still perfectly capable of calling Matt on his shit. 

“Need to borrow _my_ cane, Matthew?” Father Lantom deadpans, rising behind Matt and following out of the pew.

“I’m not quite there yet.” Matt answers, genuflecting towards the altar, careful not to bend so low he can’t pick himself up again.

“That’s what we all tell ourselves,” Father Lantom answer, and it sounds more like a promise than a barb. “Give it time. It’ll be here sooner than you expect.”  

-

Matt can hear Foggy’s voice through the front door, though it falls softer once Matt slides his key into the lock. He makes sure to take his time unlocking the door, lingers in the front hallway hanging up his coat, folds his cane slowly and rests it on side table where they keep their keys with a bit more noise than he normally does.

He catches the end of the conversation regardless.

“No, no, it’s alright. Yeah. Of course. Take care of yourself, alright? We miss you too, Kare. Bye.” Matt’s heart squeezes tighter in his chest.

Foggy’s sigh rings out like an explosion. “Alright, it’s safe to come in.” Heat rises in Matt’s face but he toes off his damp shoes anyway, makes his way into the living room where Foggy is sitting on the couch. 

“How is she?” Matt asks, lowering himself onto the couch. He stretches his leg up on the coffee table to rest his knee, wills his face to remain carefully neutral.

Foggy’s exhale has a harder edge to it the second time. “She’s alright. Working hard. You know Karen, always the go getter.” He flops backward into the couch cushions. “She says happy birthday by the way.”

Matt nods silently, toys with the cuff of his sleeve, tries to ignore the way his heart quickens. The scent memory of Karen’s favorite perfume—Easter lilies, soft and delicate and so unlike the woman who wore it—floods his nose. He wonders if she still prefers it.

 “Anyway, she had to run.”  Foggy rubs his hands over his face, which does nothing to obscure the suspicion in his voice. “It’s like you’ve both got some kind of radar that goes off whenever there’s the slightest chance you might have to talk to each other like actual adults.”

“We talk.” Matt protests weakly, sinking deeper into the couch. It’s not a sulk, but he’s self-aware enough to know it’s a near thing.

“Listen buddy, I say this with all the love I bear for you in my physical and spiritual being: You both need to get your shit together and talk.”

“We _do_ talk Foggy.” Matt says, sounding more defensive than he intends to.

“Five minutes of chit-chat twice a year does not a conversation make, Murdock. Try again.”

“We—what is there to say?” Matt sighs, grinds his head into the cushion behind it, blinking stubbornly behind his glasses. “She left for a reason Fog.”

Foggy gestures wildly though it’s hard to pinpoint exactly what he’s doing. This is not a new conversation between them. It rarely goes well. “Yeah but that doesn’t mean she left _us_. You know that right? I mean—” He stops, bites down on whatever he was going to say next.

He’s switching tactics. Matt tips his head towards him, waiting. Foggy’s breathing shifts, preparing to launch into his next attack but Matt doesn’t want to have this conversation, not right now. “Fog—” He starts, but Foggy’s not having it, impatiently rolling over Matt’s voice.

 “You didn’t chase her away.” Foggy says, and Matt shakes his head. Because he knows that. He does. Karen is a grown woman. And Matt knows, from those brief conversations they do have—far and few between though they are—that she’s happier now than she was those last years in New York.

(“I came to this city to be someone different,” Karen says softly, hands flat on the table top. The same table top that had hosted countless holiday dinners, night caps, brainstorming sessions over dubiously obtained files. “And I did that. But that person is—isn’t someone I can be anymore. The city’s changing, the whole world is changing—and I—I want to change too. For the better. And I don’t think I can do that here.”)

 Somedays Karen’s departure feels like a scar, skin bound together but with a different texture, jagged and raised where it once laid smooth. Other days it’s a bruise, tender when pressed on. On days like this though it feels like a wound, still seeping, never given a chance to properly heal, infection setting and burning through every defense in his body like a fever. She had been there for so long, since the inception of the firm, as crucial a part of Nelson and Murdock as either of them had ever been in those early days. She’d held them together when they had fallen apart, had been there every step of the way. And Matt, with all his perception, hadn’t noticed how much she felt adrift until it was too late to reach out.

Matt and Karen’s attempt at dating had been short lived, because while they’d loved each other they were each of them too similar, burned too hot to temper one another. Matt loves her, he’ll always love her, even now that she’s a missing piece of the family Matt never thought he’d have again after his father died.

(“You can’t help everyone, Matt.” Karen said at the airport. Foggy had stepped back to give them space but Matt could still hear the barely stifled hitch of his breathing as he tired not to cry. “Sometimes we’ve got to help ourselves.”)

Matt swallows. “I just wish…she could have been happy here.”

Foggy’s hand is warm on his wrist. “Me too buddy. Who knows maybe one day she can be. But for now we got to play the cards we’ve been dealt.”

Matt’s mouth twists ruefully, but he turns his hand over and grips Foggy’s tight. “When did you get so smart?”

“I’ve wizened with age.” Foggy replies, and the conversation isn’t over, not yet, but for the first time in years Matt isn’t afraid of where it might take them.

-

Foggy announces they deserve a nap before the last dish from lunch has even been properly dried.  Matt’s still trying to erase the last vestiges of tension from their previous conversation, let’s Foggy take his hand and lead the way back to bed.

Matt strips out of his dress clothes but forgoes his sweatpants, slips into bed in his boxers and undershirt. Foggy’s hair is a little damp from his own morning shower when he nudges his head against Matt’s on the pillow, his flannel clad leg sliding static down the length of Matt’s shin. “I think we’re officially old.” Matt mumbles at the ceiling, letting Foggy rearrange his arm until it’s comfortable crossed over his back.

Foggy hums, wiggles closer. “It’s called self-care, Matthew.”

Matt rests somewhere between deep mediation and a light doze, rocked gently by the rhythm  of his heart and Foggy’s pulse combined, blocks out the hurricane of sound from the city outside their home.

He wakes up a while later, the sun having shifted along the foot of their bed. Foggy’s still breathing deep, snoring with his face half-buried in Matt’s armpit, his left arm swung over Matt’s stomach. Matt toys with his fingers gently, traces absentminded patterns over his knuckles.

Foggy’s fingers twitch, his breathing shifts, lightens. He doesn’t pull his hand away, lets Matt’s fingertips continue to dance over the ridges and valleys of his bones. He lingers over the naked skin at the base of Foggy’s ring finger, rubs a stripe over it again and again.

He asked Foggy to marry him—more than once—to no avail.  They weren’t ready, not at first, and then Foggy was sick and Matt was scared.

(“You think putting a ring on it is going to keep me alive?” Foggy nearly snarls and Matt’s face twists, angry and stung and sick with fear. “I think I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” “And if you can’t? What if—” But it’s too terrible a thing to listen to and Matt can’t, he can’t—and then Foggy’s arms are wrapped around him and they’re  shaking but at least they’re shaking together and Matt’s hands claw into the material of Foggy’s sweater, desperate to hold on.)

“Still thinking of making an honest man out of me?” Foggy asks lightly, resting his chin on Matt’s chest. Matt snorts, runs his free hand over Foggy’s hair, traces the skin behind his ear just to make him squirm. “Too late for that don’t you think?”

Foggy laughs, the sound choked with indignation, his fingers pinching at Matt’s ribs, his armpit in retribution.

Matt twists, happy he can even if he’s not in peak condition, still fast enough to catch Foggy off guard. He throws his leg over Foggy’s hips and sits astride him, grins at the half-interested sound Foggy makes from under him. “I’m flattered babe but I’m definitely gonna need a minute to catch up.”

Matt leans forward, braces his palms amongst the rumpled sheets beneath Foggy’s head. He lowers himself into the warmth radiating from Foggy’s mouth, finds the center of his face and noses at his cheek.  Foggy’s hands close around his waist, grasp him by the hips to keep him steady.

“We could.” Matt says, voice low, the words bubble across his tongue like champagne. “I’d marry you today if you said yes.”

Foggy’s hands squeeze, knead at Matt’s hips.

“What am I saying yes to exactly?” Foggy asks, determined to give Matt a hard time. After twenty years, Matt figures he’s earned the right.

Matt shuffles enough that he can drape himself over Foggy’s body, press his ear to Foggy’s chest. “You should marry me.” He says, voice smaller than he intended, he imagines its trapped behind the swelling mass of his heart, ballooning behind his ribs.

Foggy’s palm strokes up his spine. His heart skips beneath Matt’s ear. “Really? That’s the best you got, buddy?”

Matt turns his head, rests his chin on Foggy’s breastbone. “Franklin Nelson—“ His mouth wobbles with the urge to laugh, Foggy’s breath hitches on a snort, “will you marry me?”

“‘Fraid I’ll have to pass.” Foggy answers fondly, palm heavy between Matt’s shoulders, “I could never marry a man who calls me Franklin in bed.”

Matt makes an impatient sound, digs his fingers into Foggy’s side until he’s twisting and trying to buck him off. “Fine, fine,” Foggy gasps, laughter rounding the syllables and making them sing in Matt’s ears, “Guess I’ll marry you.” His breathing catches, and Matt waits for the obvious tag, some glib reminder of how lucky Matt is that Foggy is willing to put up with his antics. Foggy’s hands drag up Matt’s chest, one palm curling over the column of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Whatever Foggy is considering saying, it never comes. It’s okay though, Matt doesn’t need the reminder.

-

“We need anything else?” Foggy calls from the doorway, keys jangling as he plucks them off the hook. The rain has stopped outside, and Matt calculates it should last long enough for Foggy to pick up dinner and do whatever else he has planned that makes his heart stutter excitedly.

“Something leafy and green.” Matt yells back, overly aware of how little of the healthy food pyramid is represented in their evening meal.

Foggy scoffs, “We’re celebrating Matty!  No one celebrates with rabbit food.”

“Foggy.” Matt says warningly, because birthdays don’t eliminate a need to make sure Foggy’s taking care of himself but Foggy already pulling the front door open. “Talk to my fiancé, if you have problem.” Foggy says good-naturedly, and then the door shut, his footsteps walking further and further away.

Matt busies himself in the apartment, puts a record on, tidies up from the afternoon, puts the dishes away. He can’t stop smiling, feels only slightly foolish for it.

He reaches for his phone before he can second guess himself, pushing himself forward until it’s ringing.

He’s almost sure she won’t answer.

“Hello?” Karen’s voice hasn’t changed, crisp and clear and steady, “Matt? Is everything okay? Is Foggy—”

Matt sits on the edge of the couch, rubs one hand over his hair, momentarily dumb-stuck by nerves. He clears his throat. “Yeah, no everything’s fine. Foggy’s—we’re fine.”

Karen breathes out and Matt feels bad for scaring her. Feels bad they’ve gone so long without talking that she immediately assumes the worst.

“Sorry, is it—can you talk? I, uh, sorry if the time isn’t—”

Karen scrambles on the other end until they’re both tripping over themselves in a stand-off of manners. “No, it’s fine—I’m good. I mean—I can talk—”

They both go silent. Matt rocks forward, elbows braced on his knees. He touches his fingertips to his mouth, wonders if he should have waited for Foggy.

“Matt?” Karen asks, unsure, and Matt straightens again, purposeful.

“Sorry, I uh—how have you been?”

Karen lapses into silence on her end, and Matt kneads his knuckles against the bridge of his nose.

“Good—it’s been good. I’m writing for the Chronicle right now.” Foggy printed out her last article and stuck it on their refrigerator, read the whole thing to Matt with a stouthearted determination.

“Yeah—it’s great.” Matt interjects earnestly, “I mean. I’ve been keeping up. You’re great, Karen.”

“Oh.” Karen says softly, “Thank you.”

Matt chews his bottom lip until it stings. “I, uh, I actually called to tell you something. Important. Foggy—uh, Foggy finally said yes.”

The silence that descends down the line is deafening, broken only by a muffled squeak. “Oh Matt, that’s awesome. I—congratulations!” Karen’s voice wavers, tearful, “I’m so happy for you two.”

“I wanted to ask you if you’d—do you think you could come? We need a witness and you’re—I understand if you can’t—I mean we haven’t talked about a date or anything yet, before New Year, definitely, but we could wait if—it’s just—Foggy and I can’t think of anyone else we’d rather have there.”

Karen sucks in a breath. It shudders on the way out. “Matt. Of course, just, tell me when. Of course I’ll be there. I’m honored—”

“You’re family.” Matt corrects gently, heart full, throat tight.

Karen laughs, tearful and thin, “You’re my family too, Matt. Always.” In that moment, it feels like the best sound in the world.

-

“Ugh.” Foggy groans, lying supine on the living room floor. “Why did you let me eat so much?”

“When have I ever been able to stop you?” Matt says, struck by a deep feeling of not-quite déjà vu. Because he’s definitely been here before. Him and Foggy eating pizza out of the box in their sweats with rain falling outside their first year of law school. An impromptu birthday dinner put together when Foggy found out what day it was. But it also feels exactly like Matt’s thirtieth, and his thirty-sixth, and even his forty-first when Danny sat on the box and all the cheese stuck to the lid.

“True.” Foggy sighs. “I have always been fiercely independent.”

“Exactly.” Matt agrees, lying across the couch, full and relaxed and happy. God, he’s so fucking happy it doesn’t feel real.

There’s a box of cupcakes in the kitchen Matt’s not supposed to know about but he doesn’t know what he could wish for right now that he doesn’t already have.

He closes his eyes and pictures next year, and the next, the one that comes after and for the first time in his life doesn’t feel selfish doing it.

“Falling asleep on me, Murdock?” Foggy asks, sitting up.

“Thinking of growing a beard.” Matt answers, only half-teasing.

Foggy’s heart sings like a struck bell, ringing out throughout the room. “Well,” he says contemplatively, “It could help balance out the amount of forehead you’re rocking these days. But it be overkill with the horns, don’t you think.”

Matt throws an olive at Foggy. “Maybe without the horns then.”

Foggy’s heart nearly stops. “Yeah?”

Matt nods, turning the thought over now that it’s fully taken shape. “Yeah.”


End file.
